Career Advice
by Grim Lupine
Summary: The first time Neal meets Uther Pendragon, it's with one hand halfway into his pocket, his shoulders tensing minutely despite himself as he tries to appear nonchalant. //oneshot// //WhiteCollar/Merlin crossover// //no pairing//


Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Word Count: Roughly 1500

Notes: Written for the awesome Ficathon Walks into a Bar challenge on LiveJournal. This was _so hard _to write. XD It took me so long to figure out a way to get Uther and Neal to meet up and chat, especially since my insight into Uther's character is practically nonexistent. Here's hoping this doesn't suck too badly. XD

This takes place modern day, so pre-canon for White Collar, modern-day AU for Merlin.

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The first time Neal meets Uther Pendragon, it's with one hand halfway into his pocket, his shoulders tensing minutely despite himself as he tries to appear nonchalant. He's seventeen, and picking pockets is still relatively new to him, still slightly outside his comfort zone. Neal is best with his words, his effortless smile. His hands are clever but his lies are even more so.

Neal's fingers close over the smooth leather of a wallet, and in that instant he feels a hand wrap tight around his wrist. "Not bad," a voice says in his ear, smooth and accented. "Quick hands, and you know how to keep them light. You just need to work on looking casual. Trust that you know what you're doing, and you won't look like you're waiting to be caught with your hand in a cookie jar."

Neal freezes and looks up, meets a pair of intent gray eyes. Some small part of him has been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he decided that the honest life is not the life for him—Neal's had a spate of luck that hasn't ended quite yet, and luck is something he doesn't fully trust in.

Of course, Neal wouldn't be Neal if he didn't try to talk his way out of this. "You dropped your wallet back there by the newspaper stand," he says, smiling easily. "I just wanted to see if I could get it back to you without you noticing. Guess it didn't work."

The man eyes him up and down. His face looks serious, a little foreboding, until he smiles. It's a small smile, one that seems to be laughing with Neal rather than at him. "Better," the man says. "Work on your lifts until they're as natural as your lies, and you'll be just fine."

Neal stares at him. Who _is _this man, who's teaching him the finer points of picking pockets in the same tone of voice one might use to explain a troubling math problem?

"My name is Uther," the man says, as if he's read Neal's mind. "I rather hope I won't be seeing you around." He pats Neal gently on the shoulder and strides off purposefully before Neal can say a word.

Neal frowns at the figure retreating into the distance. That was, by far, one of the strangest experiences Neal has ever had. He slides his hands into his pockets, drawing back slightly in surprise when he feels a sharp paper corner poke his fingers. He pulls out a business card engraved neatly with the name UTHER PENDRAGON, and mouths a soundless _huh_. Neal hadn't even felt the card being slipped in his pocket.

What a strange man. Neal wouldn't mind running into him again, but overall it seems likely Uther will get his wish; after all, what are the odds of them meeting each other another time?

*

The second time Neal meets Uther Pendragon, he has a menu tucked under one arm and the words "Hello, my name is Neal and I'll be your waiter for today," halfway out of his mouth. Neal is almost two years older now, not much wealthier, but quite a bit richer in experience. He knows enough to know that he still doesn't know enough.

To his own credit, he only stumbles slightly over the familiar greeting when he recognizes the man sitting at the table in front of him. Uther's eyes narrow as he looks Neal over, and Neal has to resist the urge to straighten up and lock his hands behind his back under that direct gaze.

"Have you given up on a life of crime, then?" Uther asks quietly, taking the menu from Neal's hand and opening it up in front of him.

Neal hesitates. He doesn't—he doesn't _know _this man, beyond a few minutes' worth of life advice along the lines of "How to Be a Better Pickpocket: The Crash Course". But there is something evaluative in Uther's eyes that makes Neal want to tell him things. He thinks Uther might understand him. He thinks he could learn what he doesn't yet know from this man.

"There's a jewelry store across the street," he says, and fights to keep from fidgeting as Uther's gaze sharpens. "They have some fairly unique pieces. I have the latest shift here, which means plenty of time and opportunity to keep an eye on how things work over there."

Uther says nothing for a moment, then: "And what might you be planning to do with that information?"

"Nothing," Neal says, frustrated. "I don't know enough about jewelry heists, and getting arrested due to incompetence isn't really in my plans for the future."

"Tell me something," Uther says, voice suddenly commanding. "Don't look around—you know what people are seated around here, you don't need to look. You noticed everyone as soon as they came in. Now tell me, of all the people seated here right now, who would you guess comes from the wealthiest background?"

Neal hesitates, says, "I don't—" Uther's raised eyebrow and that part of himself that always appreciates a challenge make him continue, "The woman two tables back. Black dress."

Uther leans back in his seat, looking satisfied, as if something he was questioning has just been confirmed. "Not the one seated to my left?" he asks. "She's certainly dressed like someone who enjoys spending money."

Neal shrugs. "Too gaudy," he says. If he can admit the things he does not know, he can also say with certainty that he knows the cost of style and a little bit of the way women are. "She's dressed like someone eager to show off the fact that she has money, which means whatever wealth she has is probably fairly new. The woman in the black dress doesn't feel the need to prove she has money, because it's all she's ever known."

Uther smiles.

"I'm ready to order now," he says, and goes back to studying Neal like he's a particular interesting specimen under a microscope. Through the rest of dinner, Neal feels that look settle over his skin, and he twitches slightly under the weight of it. Neal still does not trust entirely in luck, but he does believe that things happen for a reason. He doesn't want to be working in restaurants and studying jewelry stores, coming up with plans without the knowledge or courage to implement them for the rest of his life. He wants to learn and he wants to be the best. Uther can help him with this. He knows it.

Neal brings the bill around at the end of the meal, and watches Uther's bowed head as he checks it over. "Neal, I'm going to give you the address of a friend of mine," Uther says without looking up. "He's unlike anyone you'll ever meet. Perhaps you might not consider that a good thing, but I hope you'll trust me when I tell you he is exactly what you need." Uther looks up, and Neal can see that he has no doubt that Neal will do exactly as Uther tells him. Neal has the feeling that Uther is not a man to whom many people say 'no'.

Uther tucks a scrap of paper into Neal's hand, and Neal surreptitiously slips it into his pocket. When he looks back up, he sees Uther tugging his jacket on, and he tells him, "Thank you." Neal means it, no matter what happens next.

"Take care, Neal," Uther says, and claps him on the shoulder. After Uther leaves, Neal looks at the empty table where he had been sitting and starts to smile. Finally, something interesting is happening. Something new.

It's about time.

*

Two days later, Neal stands in front of a small gray house and stares at the front door, still debating with himself whether or not he should go. What guarantee does he have that a total stranger will even _want _to teach him anything? But then, what are Neal's other options? He wants to learn. He wants to live.

There's only one choice, in the end.

He climbs the stairs and rings the bell, hears footsteps rush forward from inside the house.

"Who is it?" an irate voice says through the door, and Neal closes his fingers around the scrap of paper in his pocket.

"My name's Neal Caffrey," he says. "Uther sent me."

There is a suspicious silence, then: "How do I know that's true? You can't just believe anyone who comes to your door, you know. That's a good way to get yourself killed. Or worse, _arrested_."

Neal's lips twitch into a grin. "Uther told me to tell you that you should try to be less paranoid, especially after that incident in Moscow." Neal hears nothing for a long moment, and then the lock clicks back and the door opens out. There's a short, balding man standing there, eyeing Neal doubtfully from behind his glasses.

"Come inside before someone sees you," the man says quickly, and ushers Neal inside. "I'm Mozzie, and you're Neal. Good. Now that we're acquainted, how much do you know about Italian sculptures?"

Neal pauses, shutting the door behind him. "A little," he says honestly. "Not much."

Mozzie nods decisively, says, "We're going to change that," and Neal believes him.

That, there, is only the beginning.

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End file.
